


Mission Impossible

by idreamtofreality



Category: Star Trek, Star Trek: The Original Series
Genre: M/M, Post-Five Year Mission, and by married already i mean they're both vulcan- and human-married, everyone is thirsty, jim and spock are married already, jim is thirsty, spock is thirsty, the last solid three pages is just nsfw
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-05
Updated: 2018-06-05
Packaged: 2019-05-18 10:34:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,108
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14851119
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/idreamtofreality/pseuds/idreamtofreality
Summary: After their days on the Enterprise, Spock and Jim go wherever the Federation needs them. By a stroke of luck, Spock and Jim are assigned to the same mission, so after being separated for two months, they finally reunite.But something's wrong. Jim's being too professional. Spock is thrilled to do the mission, but it's a little hard to concentrate when his t'hy'la refuses to give him that reunion kiss Spock was so looking forward to.





	Mission Impossible

**Author's Note:**

> My first contribution to the Star Trek Reverse Big Bang!! Accompanying art by the amazing trailsofpaper titled "Presentation," which could have been completely innocent but we both noticed there was something a little odd about the way Spock was looking at his husband's hands
> 
> Comment on the accompanying art here: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14854308

It’s been two months since he’s seen Jim.

They’ve been separated for longer. Once, they went an entire year without seeing each other--it was hard for both of them, and when at last they reunited, they’d spent the entirety of a week holed up in Spock’s quarters, just laying next to one another, finding comfort in each other’s presence, neither having the courage to lose sight of their t’hy’la again.

It’s been two whole months. They’d been too busy to communicate as often as they wanted, and the time zones of their planets were wildly different. The result was that the only time Spock got to hear Jim’s voice lasted just a few minutes; Jim was exhausted from a day’s work and needed to get some sleep, and Spock had just woken for his day, and they only managed to say that they loved each other before Jim’s eyes fluttered shut and Spock was forced to hang up.

Spock takes a deep breath and closes his eyes as the elevator makes another stop, letting another handful of Starfleet officers on. They salute him. Spock salutes back.

He’d gotten the message a week ago: Spock and Jim were both needed at Starfleet Base. There was an army on the way to attack Starfleet, and they needed to determine how to dispel said army without also harming their own fleet.

“If anyone can figure it out,” said the admiral who’d called Spock, folding his hands behind his back, “It’s the two of you.” He’d then gone on to describe how Jim and Spock were master tacticians, and how they had a history of working flawlessly together. Spock resisted the temptation to ask the obvious: if they worked so flawlessly together, why did Starfleet insist on continuously separating them?

Jim is two floors away.

Spock fidgets with the comm in his hands, increasingly anxious as his altitude increases. Jim hasn’t yet contacted him. When he landed, Spock had sent a message announcing his arrival, but still there has been no reply.

“What floor?” asks one of the officers, looking at Spock.

“Next floor,” Spock says. Unnerved with his anxiety, he tucks his comm into his pocket and tugs out any wrinkles in his jacket. He adds an inane “Thank you” to placate the officer; his years with Doctor Mccoy emphasized humanity’s need for polite conversation, and thus Spock fell into the habit of initiating such conversation.

His chest tightens. He hasn’t seen any of the crew but Jim in so long. Once, eight and a half months ago, he’d received a memo from Nyota Uhura, but that was the extent of the communication.

He misses them. He misses how things used to be.

“Your stop,” says the officer. Spock nods at them and steps off the elevator. He’s on the floor with the command center--all of Starfleet’s highest-ranking officers come here, and right now Spock imagines a good chunk of them are here now.

He salutes his way down the hallway and then pushes open the door to the command center.

And there he is.

Jim, in all of his golden glory. He’s bent over a map of their space quadrant. His hair, getting a little long now, hangs over his face. He’s focused. He doesn’t look up when Spock walks through the doors. He doesn’t offer his beautiful smile.

“Commander Spock.” Admiral Hoffman steps toward Spock and lifts a ta’al. “I’m glad you’re here. We’ve started already; I hope you don’t mind.”

“Of course not.” Spock glances at Jim again, but his bondmate is still engrossed in his work. “Have there been any developments?”

“Admiral Kirk is formulating something. I thought you could work with him while we explore other options.

“Very well.” Spock walks over to Jim. Jim still does not look up. “Hello, Jim,” Spock tries, and at last the other man looks up.

“Ah. Commander Spock.”

Spock masks his wince. “How--”

“I’ve begun a plan, but I’m stuck on one particular area.” Jim interrupts Spock immediately, but Spock knows he didn’t do it on purpose; he would never interrupt someone on purpose. “Their ships are all somehow powered by a ship in the center that they’re all protecting. It’s technology beyond my understanding, for sure.” He looks bothered. Spock reaches out with his mind to comfort him, but there’s nothing.

No, not nothing: there’s a barrier—a wall. Jim’s blocking Spock’s consciousness. He retreats to his own mind, troubled.

“I would like you to try to understand how they draw that power,” Jim says. “The design is reminiscent of Vulcan technology, so of everyone here, you’re best suited to examination.” He moves something off his screen and the table in front of Spock lights up. “That’s all we have so far.”

Spock looks it over. There isn’t much information at all. The diagrams are clumsy and sparsely labeled, and the accompanying data leaves much to be desired. “What is your plan?” Mirroring Jim, Spock’s tone is cool and professional.

“I’m thinking we can deactivate their ships instead of destroying them outright.” Jim cradles his chin in one hand, thinking. Spock yearns to reach over and interlace their fingers together. “I know they’re on their way to attack us, but I don’t want to take life where it isn’t absolutely necessary.”

There is more pause than usual between his words and Spock knows why: as soon as the higher-ups hear this plan, they’ll question why he put so much effort into saving their would-be attackers.

“It is only logical,” Spock says smoothly. “Killing them is dealing punishment for a crime not yet committed. Even if that crime was threatening to attack and not the attack itself, one could easily argue the response disproportionate.”

Jim’s shoulders relax a fraction. For the first time since their reunion, he looks at Spock—really  _ looks _ at Spock. Encouraged, Spock continues.

“Furthermore, destroying an entire fleet would tactfully make little sense. We have no way of determining what extraneous casualties there will be.”

He expects Jim to relax further at this—to let down his barriers and allow Spock in again—but instead Jim’s shoulders retighten, and he nods stiffly. “Yes. Of course, Mister Spock.” And then he returns to the plans in front of him, brow furrowed in concentration.

Very well. Spock doesn’t have to be distracted by this. Professionally, Jim has a reason for anything. This didn’t have to be any different.

Spock begins studying the ships. The designs are indeed reminiscent of Vulcanian technology, but they seem to maneuver in patterns more like Klingon Birds of Prey. They do, however, seem to stick in a close formation around a center ship; it looks no different from the others, but it’s more important than the others. Jim is right; it’s probably their source of power, or at least their center of command. Taking out that ship could cause the chaos and disruption they needed.

“Have we scanned for life?” Spock asks. Jim doesn’t look up from his workstation.

“No. We haven’t been able to get a ship close enough.”

“What has Starfleet sent?”

“Just a couple cruisers.”

“Not a surveyor?”

“We didn’t have any to spare. They’re in—”

Spock has his communicator out before Jim is finished.

“Figure something out?”

“Not necessarily. I have a surveyor at my place.”

There’s a flicker of Spock’s t’hy’la in the admiral’s eyes. “And why is that, Mister Spock?”

“I bought one last year. It was at an auction.” Finished sending his message, Spock flips his communicator shut. “It isn’t at all up-to-date, but it should do the job. I requested Sulu fly the mission.”

Another flicker of Spock’s t’hy’la. “He’s a captain, now. You think he’ll take the mission?”

“Of course he will take the mission. If he is free, he will take the mission.”

The familiar Jim disappears and the admiral is back, nodding. “You’re right. As always, you’re right. In the meantime.” He gestures to his own table and Spock moves to join him again. “Are we still assuming this is the mothership?”

“If by mothership, you mean it provides the power to all other ships, then, yes, it’s a possibility. We should also consider it is merely the ship from which they receive their commands.”

“Merely,” Jim repeats.

“Thus, taking out that ship would disorganize them, but it would not disable them.”

“Hm. Should we hope it’s a mothership, then?”

“Hoping does not accomplish much.”

If this was  _ his _ Jim, Spock would here receive a poetic monologue on the power of hope in the universe—the beauty in believing in the little things without logic to back you. But Spock gets none of this; Jim is silent and thoughtful, his head tilting at the screen beneath them. Then he says, “Tell me what you’re thinking.”

Spock uses his fingers to blow up the diagram of the cluster. “This center ship is the key to everything. If it is the source of power, there will likely be engineers on board, and destroying the vessel would disable the surrounding ships but also likely harm said engineers. If it is a command center, there is a chance to disrupt their order, but, again, destroying the vessel would harm those on board, and we will still need to deal with the rest of the fleet.”

Jim’s nodding. “And the latter would have more people, which the surveyor should reveal.”

“The question, Jim,” says Spock, “Is whether you are willing to sacrifice the few to save the many.” He waits a moment, then adds: “Spunau bolayalar t’Wheku volayalar t’Zamu il t’Veh.”

Jim chews on his lip. Spock is suddenly overwhelmed to lean over and press their mouths together, to taste Jim again for the first time in what seems like an eternity.

He doesn’t move. He’s not entirely convinced Jim will embrace him in return, and it frightens him to think about that.

“How much time do we have?”

“Four hours before they’re within visual range.” Spock glances at the comms. “Sulu accepted the mission and is on his way to the cluster now.” He looks up and sees Jim on his own comm.

“I’m contacting Scotty. A while ago, he was working on a sort of EMP that might be helpful.”

Spock tilts his head.

“I need you to understand their technology for it to work.”

“I requested Sulu and his team share their data as soon as possible.”

“I’ll update everyone,” says Jim. He pauses before me moves away, half-turning back to Spock. “What is that Vulcan phrase you brought up so often? The one about taking lives?”

Spock studies his bondmate’s face. “Kup-fun-tor ha’kiv na’ish du stau,” he says. “Can you return to life what you kill?”

Jim nods. There’s determination in his eyes—the same determination that made Spock first admire him not only as a captain but as a man. “If there’s life on that vessel, we aren’t destroying it. Not unless we have no other choice.”

“From you,” says Spock, “I would expect nothing less.”

They’re in front of the admiralty within the hour with all of the data they need pinched between Spock’s fingers. Jim glances at Spock, raising one eyebrow, and Spock plugs the drive into the computer.

“We have a plan,” Jim announces, turning slightly to face his audience. He’s no longer looking at Spock, which sends a shock of bitterness that Spock doesn’t like through his chest. “The ships operate in a cluster because they’re being powered by the ship in the center. The command ship,” he says, pointing at an unassuming ship near the center of the cluster, “Is here.”

“And how do we know that?” Admiral Hoffman asks. In the wake of impending war, Spock notices, the admiralty neglects both politeness and protocol. When Jim glances at him, Spock realizes that it’s his turn to answer.

“The crew is largest on that ship,” he says. “Captain Hikaru Sulu determined it had twice the amount of personnel and, despite the fact that it looks the same on the outside, it also has a much better defense system and more advanced weapons.”

“And this is significant because?” another admiral asks. Spock doesn’t recognize him. He looks back at Jim—at his t’hy’la, his captain—and is disappointed to see Jim’s attention has drifted away from him again.

“It means that we know which ship to go after first after we disable the central power source. With the central power source gone, they will not be able to navigate, and with the command ship gone, they will not be able to organize.”

“Very well.” The admiral nods, satisfied, and Jim continues. He moves his hands when he talks, and Spock’s eyes linger on his fingers. He wants to reach out, connect their hands, feel the pulse of comfort that confirms their physical and emotional bonds.

“Captain Montgomery Scott, in his off hours, has been developing a type of electromagnetic pulse that can be integrated into a ship and has the capabilities to disable a vessel the size of the USS Enterprise.”

“How long will it take to install it?”

Spock can’t look away from Jim’s hands.

“It’s already installed on a fully capable vessel already in the bay. But,” Jim adds, “There are restrictions. It’s a new device, and Captain Scott hasn’t yet figured out how to expand the range. We’ll need to be in the center of the cluster in order to be able to disable the central ship.”

Spock wants to feel those hands on his arms, his neck, his face, his thighs, between his legs, raking through his hair.

“If we have a skilled-enough pilot, we can create a temporary portal from in front of the cluster to the center of the cluster, where said pilot and the accompanying crew can activate the electromagnetic pulse.”

He wants to feel Jim’s mouth on his, on his skin, on his jaw.

“How much time does it take to activate the pulse?”

He wants to feel Jim’s weight above him, hot breath on the nape of his neck, the beginnings of bruises Jim sucked onto his shoulders.

“Only seconds. If it’s already warmed up, we could do it instantaneously.”

“And if the pilot and their crew are hurt in their endeavors? What then? We’re sending a ship right into the throes of the enemy.”

He wants the bliss of their joined minds—the connection one could touch upon at great distances but only replicate when together; the connection in which Spock can no longer tell where he stops and where Jim begins.

“I understand that we’re putting the pilot in danger, and that this could go horribly wrong, but it’s our best chance, Admiral, to disable the enemy without actually eliminating them. I fully believe that we have pilots here that are more than capable of succeeding in this mission, and if I could I would do it myself—”

This pulls Spock immediately out of his daydream. “Which we are  _ not _ suggesting,” he interrupts, giving a slight inclination to the word ‘not’.

Jim shoots him a look. Spock revels in it. “I know several pilots—including Captain Sulu—who would not only be willing to do this, but also succeed without too much trouble.”

“You’re willing to risk a pilot’s life?”

_ Are you willing to sacrifice a few to save many? _

Spock doesn’t like that his drifting thoughts remain within the confines of the presentation. He wants his daydream back.

“I don’t believe that I am risking the pilot’s life, sir. I believe that this is the next necessary step. The pilot would catch the crew by surprise. Captain Hikaru Sulu’s observations revealed their weapons need at least two seconds to charge their weapons. If the pulse is instantaneous at the pilot’s moment of arrival at the center of the cluster, the ships won’t have the opportunity to attack. Even if they did, I struggle to believe they would be willing to fire toward their central ship, as the pilot would be right next to it.”

“That’s a very small window, Admiral.”

Spock bristles. James Tiberius Kirk is a tactical genius—everyone knows that.  _ Everyone _ knows that. Jim Kirk has pulled more successful risky maneuvers than anyone else in Starfleet, and every plan he’s come up with before has either worked or at least eventually worked. The admiralty called Jim and Spock to help them, and now they’re doing nothing but voice their doubts.

Something like reassurance touches the corners of Spock’s mind. He tries to catch it, but it’s almost immediately gone. Jim’s wall is back up.

“I understand that. As I’ve already stated, however, I believe this mission could be successful, and that it will be successful, with the right selection of a pilot and crew.”

“What’s the size of the ship with the EMP device?”

Jim had opened his mind. It was only a moment, but he’d opened his mind. That, at least, gave Spock hope.

“It’s a heavy cruiser, sir. If the ships got a few shots off, it’d be able to maintain itself long enough to send out the pulse.”

“A few shots?”

“It would be able to maintain in fully-functioning order for up to twenty shots, sir. It’s at thirty shots when we should be worried.”

“And how many shots would they be able to get off?”

“Assuming the ship gives off the pulse upon arrival—”

“Let’s assume there’s a delay.”

Jim pauses. “How much of a delay?”

“Four seconds.”

“Are we also assuming the ships are willing to fire at their source of power?”

“Why not?”

Spock does the calculations for him: “Assuming all ships immediately notice our vessel and immediately charge their weapons, and also assuming that, upon firing, they immediately charge their weapons again, and overall assuming that each shot is accurate, our vessel would acquire exactly twenty-four hundred shots.”

The audience begins murmuring. Jim grits his teeth.

“But,” says Jim, “Upon detachment from the ship, i.e. the ship’s destruction, the EMP automatically goes off. This remains the same if the EMP itself is damaged. Whether or not the pilot is successful in immediately giving off the pulse, the central ship will be disabled.”

More murmuring.

“That does not mean we should choose a poor pilot,” Jim says with a bite to his voice. “The goal here is to lose as little life as possible. If all goes to plan, we won’t lose any life.”

Even more murmuring. Spock wants to yell at all of them—what are they doing? Why aren’t they immediately saying yes? They aren’t at risk!

“Fine,” says one of them at last. “We’ll try it your way. And then we try it our way.”

“And your way is?”

“We blow the bastards out of the sky.” Admiral Hoffman stands and straightens his jacket. Jim looks stricken. “Let’s find ourselves a pilot.”

Half an hour after that, they’re all standing together, staring at the same screen. On the display, the pilot (Hikaru Sulu again, with a crew of his selection) maneuvers toward the cluster.

“Initiating jump in three, two, one…”

Spock holds his breath as Sulu presses down on the switch, shooting his ship into a black hole and right into the center of the cluster. There’s a moment where Spock can see all the ships, looming far huger than he imagined, around Sulu, and then the screen goes static.

“Captain.” Spock loses all professionalism and slams his finger onto the comm. “Captain Sulu, come in.”

Nothing. Silence. Next to him, Spock can hear Jim holding his breath. Then:

“The ships are disabled, sir. Mission success. Extracting command crew now.”

The room erupts in cheers. Spock, relieved, collapses onto the desk behind him, while the admiralty woops and hollers. Jim still looks professional, but he does look pleased; for the first time since they reunited, a smile curls those perfect lips, and his eyes glint with that familiar expression Spock loves so much.

He does not step toward Spock. He does not kiss him, or hug him, or even acknowledge him.

Spock, who has so often had control over his emotions, who has never lost his cool in front of his crew no matter how bad it’s ever gotten, suddenly feels so dejected. Sulu celebrates on the screen, and all Spock can do is wilt.

He slumps his way out of the room, trying to catch his breath, trying to catch the disappointment that is too-clearly leaking out. He must keep his cool. He must keep his cool. He must remain, above all, logical. He must—

Something catches his shoulder and, before Spock can react, he’s slammed into the hallway wall. His cheek presses against the hard metal panels.

“Hello, Spock,” Jim breathes in his ear, and his teeth fasten onto the skin of Spock’s neck.

“Jim, what--?”

“You have no idea how hard that was for me,” Jim whispers. “Being professional. Holding all of this in.” He spins Spock around and then pushes him back against the wall. He’s so close, Spock can feel Jim pressed against every part of his body. “I’ve been waiting for  _ weeks _ to do this.” And he kisses Spock hard, his lips oh-so-perfect against Spock’s, his knee sliding between Spock’s legs like it belongs there.

Spock blinks at Jim, perplexed, when he pulls away again and begins nibbling on Spock’s collarbone. “You could have kissed me when I first arrived.”

“Are you kidding me? Last time we had a reunion, I could barely keep my hands off of you. No, I had to be…” He traces a finger down Spock’s chest and gives him a wicked smile. “I had to be professional if we wanted to get anything done.”

Spock wants to tell him that he’s ridiculous, that he’s illogical, that of  _ course _ they would have been able to control themselves. But the first two are obvious, and the latter he isn’t entirely sure he would be able to support with evidence. The last time they reunited, they  _ hadn’t _ been able to keep their hands off each other; even only a week apart, they’d spent hours locked in their quarters, trying to make up for lost time.

“Diplomacy is overrated,” says Jim matter-of-factly, and Spock laughs.

“You don’t mean that.”

“It keeps separating us.” He kisses Spock again, but this time it’s in both the human and Vulcan way: his mouth on Spock’s, their fingers intertwined. It leaves Spock breathless.

“It’s our  _ job _ ,” Spock tries again, but it comes out in a gasp.

“You’re right. We get our jobs done. We make the universe a better place.” He gives Spock another smile, this one even more wicked than the last. “And I think, when we reunite, the sex is just that much better.”

“ _ Jim _ .” Spock shoots a glance toward the doorway to the command center, where dozens of their commanding officers reside, from where, at any moment, any one of those commanding officers could come out and catch them. The idea gives him both a shock of fear and an alarming twinge of arousal.

“What? I’m right, aren’t I?”

Spock glares at him.

“Shut up. Of course I’m right. Also.” He tucks his knee up, further pressing against Spock, initiating an involuntary groan. “Don’t think I didn’t notice  _ this _ .”

“The admiralty—”

“Could catch us at any minute.” Jim reaches past Spock and tugs at something, and the wall falls away from behind him. So they were leaning on a door, then. “Which is why I selected this lovely, convenient closet in which we can fornicate as we please.”

Spock slides into the room and glances around. It’s really a closet—a supply closet, even. There’s barely enough room for the both of them between the shelves. “It isn’t fornication if we are married, Jim. I believe it’s just sex.”

Jim shuts the door and, without answering, leaps onto Spock. He kisses him hard and he kisses him furiously, passionately, lovingly. His fingers lace through Spock’s and push him flat against the wall, push his legs apart, tear at the fastenings of Spock’s uniform. For a moment Spock almost wants to tell him to calm down a little, to be quiet enough so they wouldn’t be noticed, but then Jim’s mind opens to him, and Spock loses all form of resolve.

He feels Jim. He feels him in a way he can never get used to. He feels him physically, emotionally, spiritually; in each memory he senses Jim’s presence, in each thought he can taste Jim’s lips. They are two separate beings but in this moment they are only one, and they breathe as one, and they exist as one.

Their movements are crude, but their connections give Spock hope and life and toss him among the stars, let him breathe in the light, let him feel the heat of a thousand suns in a way that is both comfortably warm in its sense of belonging but also searing hot in its sense of passion. He burns in the corners of Jim’s mind, finds solace in the center of it.

Jim tears open his pants and Spock buckles under the strength of their bond, almost laughing at their situation but also living in it, loving it, loving Jim, loving the fact that they’re together again.

“Turn around,” Jim murmurs into Spock’s skin, and Spock follows suit, and his hands grip the shelves on either side of him as Jim completes their connection, his movements slow and controlled but the kisses he presses to Spock’s back wildly given. He bites into Spock’s shoulder and Spock welcomes the slight of pain. “I missed you, ashaya.”

And now he’s using Vulcan. Spock would curse him out if he could catch his breath—Jim knows that using Vulcan is Spock’s weak spot, that when he hears his language on Jim’s tongue he melts—that using Vulcan is a reminder that it’s okay to collide worlds, that Spock is a collision of worlds already and their relationship is a continuation of that collision. “You will be the death of me,” he finally grinds out, and Jim laughs loudly enough for Spock to remember where they are.

He can’t bring himself to care. He can’t bring himself to care about anything but the feel of Jim above him, one hand on Spock’s waist and one hand tangled into Spock’s hair. He can’t bring himself to care about the noise, about the mess they’re making, about how badly Jim’s messing up his hair, about how his uniform is destroyed, about how, when they exit the room, Spock will have absolutely no way to hide what they’ve been doing. He can’t care about the bruises Jim’s pressing into Spock’s waist, or the hickeys on his back and neck, or the soreness of his knees that pulsates each time Jim pushes into him because they keep knocking against the wall.

“Jim,” he pants, “Jim.” He tries to reach back and touch his bond mate but Jim slams harder into him and Spock has to catch himself on a shelf. “Jim.”

“What is it, ashaya?”

Spock can’t remember any words. “Jim,” he says again, and squeezes his eyes shut. “Jim.”

“I know, baby. I know.” He hugged Spock to his chest and pressed a kiss to the side of Spock’s head. “I know.”

Finally he finds more words, but they aren’t in Standard: “Taluk nash-veh k’dular,” he whispers. “My ashaya, my love—”

“I know, baby.”

Perhaps it’s fitting that Spock can find no other words; perhaps “I cherish thee” in his native tongue is the only thing that could even approach how Spock feels for Jim. His feelings transcend any other part of language, any other form—perhaps the only thing that could explore such emotion is the feeling of their skin together, their breaths mixing, the unhindered and unashamed gasps that escape their mouths at velocities comparable to a Starfleet vessel’s warp speed.

Spock comes forcefully then, crying out, his vision going white and his knees crumpling beneath him. Jim catches him before he falls and fastens their mouths together, and Spock can feel his husband’s smile against his lips.

“We’re back together, ashaya,” Jim croons, and Spock nearly weeps at the sound of his voice, his emotions suddenly overwhelming him in the wake of release. “Let’s never have another diplomatic mission again.”

The urge to cry disappears and Spock chuckles instead, twisting around to fully face his husband. “I don’t think that’s wise.”

“No?”

“Didn’t you say the sex gets better?”

Jim raises an eyebrow. Spock wants to lean over and kiss that eyebrow. He does. Jim laughs. “Well, it  _ does _ .”

“Well, then.” Spock puts his hands on Jim’s waist and tugs him forward until Jim stands between Spock’s legs. “New proposal: we take a month vacation. Then we come back. Then we tell them that we work best together, and it would be in their best interest to keep us together.”

“Hm.” Jim nips at Spock’s jaw. “And the sex?”

“I think I can sacrifice the desperation of reunion sex for the consistency of always being at your side, where I belong.”

Jim’s eyes widen.

“And besides the fact that the sex is  _ always  _ good,” Spock says, “If you miss…this…then we can always see if we could take a break.”

“A break,” Jim repeats.

“We can both pretend to be professional and then you can fuck me in the nearest supply closet.”

Jim’s eyes get even wider. “Spock, did you just…swear?”

Spock grins at him. “Did it work?”

Now Jim glances down quickly. “Uh.” He looks back at Spock and presses his lips together, his eyebrows rising into his hairline. “Yeah. Yeah, I think it definitely did.”

“Where are my pants?”

“Does it really  _ matter _ ?” Jim looks down again pointedly. “I think we have…more pressing matters.”

“What time is it?”

Jim bends down, scoops up Spock’s pants, and finds the communicator strapped to the waistband. “We’ve been in here about half an hour.”

“You think they’ve started looking for us yet?”

Jim ponders this with a semblance of the professionalism he earlier displayed. “Hm. I don’t believe they have. With the amount of arrogance in that room, I imagine they’re still celebrating. Or at least straightening their shirts haughtily.”

Spock pretends to consider this too, and then gives Jim a smile he hopes embodies the swirl of emotions inside him. “Well, you are a master tactician.”

Jim returns the smile, the professionalism disappearing in a flash. He lifts Spock off the ground and holds him against the wall, pulling Spock’s legs around his waist and pressing Spock’s wrists to the wall. “That I am, Mister Spock. That I am.”

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Presentation (Mission Impossible)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14854308) by [Sanwall](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sanwall/pseuds/Sanwall)




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